


Saved

by The_Moments_Gone



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Moments_Gone/pseuds/The_Moments_Gone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wrongdoer is often a man who had left something undone, not always one who had done something (See also: Eleanor's thoughts shortly after 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saved

Title: Saved  
Category: Television Shows » Black Sails  
Author: And The Moment's Gone  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T+  
Words: 2,127

Warnings/Spoilers: You have to have seen 3x01. This is my response to Eleanor's sudden change of heart about Nassau.

Official Disclaimer: All Black Sails characters and plots belong to Starz, and Michael Bay, I do not hold stock either the company or the man. Charles Vane, Eleanor Guthrie, and any other character featured are NOT mine. The title comes from the Kwabs song Saved and I don't own that either.

* * *

Eleanor Guthrie was never taught the fine art of needlepoint.

She wasn't sure what made her think of that, three days into the voyage to the West Indies.

It might have been the fact that Missus Phillips sat diligently on her stool embroidering something or another every time Eleanor was in the cabin for an extended period of time. Or that she knew that there was a small crate somewhere that contained the supplies for needlepoint as well as other ladies past times – which had been pointed out by both the captain and the first mate anytime she was above deck – should she ever decide she would like to partake.

There was also a considerable amount of books floating about if that was her preference instead.

But at the moment, she was focused on needlepoint.

Or rather her lack of skill.

Was she supposed to blame her mother for not facilitating her knowledge in such a thing? Rebecca Stewart Guthrie died long before that lesson could possibly occur. Or maybe Mister Scott was to blame. When Richard Guthrie decided that his time was best spent ignoring the fact that he had a child that was in desperate need of a parent, it was the slave's job to see to it that Eleanor acquired the necessary skills to become a functioning member of society.

He taught her numbers and letters and arithmetic and strategy. Eleanor managed to acquire a handful of manners – to be pulled out when the need arose and forgotten when her point was made. There was a distinct lack of discussion on the nature of sex. Eleanor vaguely remembered him telling her that fucking a pirate was bad for business and that he and Mister Newnan could help her find a way to scratch any itch that arose.

But she couldn't remember a single conversation about needlepoint.

She was broken out of her thoughts by a soft cough, and it only through a great amount of control that her annoyance didn't show when she turned to acknowledge her constant shadow.

"Would you like me to begin to ready you for supper, ma'am?"

Eleanor's head shook even as she glanced down at the plain blue gown she had been laced into that morning. "I'll go as I am." She decided carefully.

"You've received an invitation to dine in the captain's cabin." Missus Phillips clucked her disapproval as she moved to the trunk in their section of the hold. "Do you think that that is wise?"

Her smile cracked. "I think we're in the middle of the fucking ocean, Elizabeth." Mister Scott would be ashamed at how soon she gave up the appearance of civility. "Rogers and Captain Miller could give a shit what I'm wearing as long as I keep my mouth shut around the men and try not to stab anyone."

It would amaze no one that Eleanor had forgotten whether or not she was exaggerating.

"But please," she motioned to the trunk, eyes still wide. "If it would make you feel better to change your clothes one more time, be my guest."

It didn't surprise her that Mrs. Phillips quit the room before she could say any more.

She glanced around the room again, the perceived silence aboard a crowded ship less of a comfort that anyone might imagine, and then reached for her book again.

But she didn't open it.

Because alone aboard a ship she shouldn't be on, in the quiet that wasn't supposed to exist upon it, Eleanor couldn't ignore the little voice in her head that told her that every single thing that was happening now was her fault.

Captain Flint mocked her from the cover of the still unopened copy of Hutcheson and Moore's translation of  _The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius._  It had been a favorite of his, or, at least, that's what she gathered from the fact that he quoted it often enough. She wasn't entirely sure if that was why she chose it out of the stack of books that had been presented to her when she had first come aboard. It probably would have said more to her character had she grabbed  _The Art of War_ by Niccolò Machiavelli or even  _The Prince_.

Any of those titles would have probably have been equally telling.

But the blue leather had beckoned her, reminding her of the eyes of the man she'd once believed in maybe more than herself.

Or at least, the man she believed in enough to betray Charles Vane.

And now they were working together.

She didn't protest when her mind shifted further and further away from dinner and the book in her hands.

They had sacked Charles Towne.

Eleanor hadn't been informed by any conventional means, still too entirely new to Woodes Rogers campaign to earn any of his trust. Instead, she found herself overhearing two sailors discuss the lack of benefit of having two women on board during what was supposed to be a harrowing journey the day they cast off.

These women were not ill luck, the first reasoned. The ships could survive the storms, and the crew was made up of all seasoned sailors. The only threat to a fleet aside from that would be pirates. And with Eleanor Guthrie as a hostage, even the madmen that destroyed Peter Ashe and his beloved town would be less likely to blow them out of the water.

Eleanor had laughed at that, giving up any hope of remaining undetected and hearing more.

The men were delusional if they thought that with her notoriety came an iota of safety.

Either that or they hadn't been made aware of the events that led to her father's murder on Nassau only a few days before she'd been apprehended by Captain Hume. She supposed it didn't really matter. They felt safer leading an attack on a nation of pirates by merely having her aboard the ship, which she supposed was part of what Rogers was counting on by bringing her with him.

If only they knew.

She was made aware of the rest of the story later, being helped out of her gown and into bed by her new constant companion.

Elizabeth Phillips was absolutely thrilled to recount the news of Charles Vane coming to the aid of Captain Flint during his trial. The journal of Abigail Ashe being logged into evidence, and his speech right before hell broke loose. He was apparently a terrifyingly romantic hero, risking himself for a friend and fellow captain – two things that Eleanor was fairly certain were to never come out of Charles's mouth at any time.

Eleanor still wasn't sure where it was exactly that anyone had gotten this information. Did enough people get out of the carnage that was said to have encompassed the town? If she were to ask, would Rogers give her a more concrete account of the gossip that was being spread through London?

Her body shook with the notion that she would have to ask for anything, and she realized that she had somehow made it onto the deck, her arms braced against the rail of the forecastle as the men moved around her. She didn't even have to ask herself how she had gotten there.

The mind jumped again, as she criticized the knot being tied by a sailor nearby and the voice that stated that it wouldn't hold should the seas get rough. During the course of her incarceration, it was that one voice that she had denied herself. Mister Scott scolded her throughout the weeks of her questioning. He coached her to breathe, and to think before she spoke – not that it really did her any good sometimes – and to keep her back straight. If they were going to try her as the Pirate Queen, then there was no reason to pretend she was anything but.

Flint kept her company in her cell after the days were done. He listened to her recount what had been said, and how she had said it, and what would most likely come back to bite her in the ass. Rogers would be astounded to know that he wasn't the first person to give her advice on notoriety. In her imagination, Flint was a wealth of knowledge on her position and how she should be trying to ingratiate herself in front of them. He was also a calming word when she needed sleep. A presence when the rain would begin and she would feel like the walls of her cell were closing in on her. When she would force herself not to cry because just once before she died she wanted to feel a pair of arms around her that actually cared, it was Flint that she would think of, and the confidence that he brought to her life.

It was Charles Vane that mocked her now, having been held silent too long.

Because there was no room in her thoughts for the voice that used to calm her when the winds got rough, or of the arms that she could depend on to hold her even when she didn't feel strong enough to keep herself upright.

Because the Charles Vane that she knew was most likely gone.

The manifesto pinned to her dead father proved that.

Whether she died on the gallows or made it back to Nassau at the head of her own fleet, or the head of Woodes Rogers's, she had managed to destroy the longest running relationship that she had ever had with another human being save Mister Scott. Charles had forgiven her for many things, the loss of the Ranger most certainly one of the hardest on the long list, but he hadn't been wrong when he said that the theft of Abigail Ashe was the pinnacle. She hadn't just taken his ship, or reassigned his crew, she had circumvented his very right to captain his men. And him regaining that, being able to muster his command to attack her father and rally against the galleon, told her that that was one war that she could never be able to call a ceasefire to.

And with Charles Towne in shambles, and Rogers commanding Regulars to subdue her home, it turned out her betrayal was all for naught.

She supposed that that was why she had told Rogers that Charles was the biggest threat to his campaign. Not that she knew about Charles Towne when she'd put his name to parchment.

Eleanor had agreed to this sadistic partnership to keep herself alive. She wasn't about to imply that she didn't. After all, hadn't it been Shakespeare that had cautioned against tempting a desperate man? She was three days from the noose minimum, and while she refused to beg for her life, Eleanor Guthrie would be damned if she didn't take the opportunity when it presented itself. And after the gallows, after the mob of London, the biggest threat to her was the man that had sworn vengeance.

She had betrayed Charles Vane, and tried to take the man's reputation. She had used the wiles at her disposal to take what she wanted and to give nothing back, and if Charles was still half the man that she knew him to be, she would need a very big bargaining chipt in order to make it out of their next confrontation alive.

So she'd have to play the game better than he did. She'd have to make herself stronger, keep herself smarter. If Nassau wouldn't accept her as she had been, she had to make herself more. The more information that she provided Rogers, the better her standing, and the be better her standing, the more information that he would offer her in return. Information that, if she was right, and Nassau was preparing itself to fight back, they would need in order to push back His Royal Majesty and the oppression that came with the forced civilization that they hated so much.

She would be able to create from the foundations already there the Nassau that she had intended.

And if it took was a price on Charles's head and a hole in her heart, so be it.

Eleanor stood tall as she ran her hand over the railing.

The wind shifted again, caressing her skin and reminding her that there were more important things in life than her feelings. This wouldn't be the first time that the legacy of Nassau had taken precedence over the affairs of her heart. She'd survived it before, she could survive it again.

Behind her, Missus Phillips called that it was time for their evening meal, and Eleanor couldn't help the laugh that bubbled from her lips.

Perhaps her life would have been much easier had Mister Scott had only taught her to sew.


End file.
